


The Annual Tadfield Cheese-Rolling Festival

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Groundhog Day (1993) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23109562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Disgruntled newscaster Anthony Crowley is forced to cover the annual Tadfield Cheese Rolling Festival...again. Only this year he's accompanied by a new producer who he can't seem to get his mind off of even though he's swiftly realizing he has far bigger problems. Namely, the fact that the Tadfield Cheese Rolling Festival refuses to end.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 327
Kudos: 913
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Human AUs, Fluffy Omens, Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Rom Com Event, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the Good Omens Romcom fest!  
> Shout out to Epi-vet,[ Janthony(d20owlbear)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeforeCrimson/pseuds/D20Owlbear) for an early draft reading that helped me realize I'm not totally bonkers  
> Love to my beta's and story coaches [eunyisadoran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/pseuds/Euny_Sloane) and [wingittofreedom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/Wingittofreedom)

“Don’t you have an umbrella?”

At the question, Crowley turned from his post glaring out the glass door at the rain that refused to let up and spotted a chubby man with cotton-blond curls approaching him. He looked familiar. Ah, right, the new producer started today. He was bound to be an irritating one. From what Crowley heard, he was _friendly_.

“Didn’t bring one.”

“Aren’t you the weatherman?” the new producer asked, voice a bit teasing as he drew up beside Crowley. Now they were both stuck in the lobby of the news station, staring out the window. “Doesn’t that mean you predict the weather?”

“I’m not a weatherman. I’m a current events and special interests reporter,” Crowley replied by habit as he slipped on his sunglasses. Everyone called him the weatherman. Bloody irritating.

The new producer was peering at him curiously and he didn’t like it.

“Besides, I don’t personally predict the weather. The weather is predicted and I read it off a teleprompter,” Crowley growled, displeased by the drizzle and the gaze of the man beside him. He just wanted to go home. If he was going to do that, he needed to get to his car, and if he wanted to get to his car, he was going to get soaked.

The man beside him laughed, a short gust of air out of his nostrils, and then smiled at Crowley. For a moment, the drizzling sleet disappeared and nothing about the office building or the car park outside was gray. The only thing that existed was that brilliant smile.

Crowley sucked in a deep breath.

“Well, you’d think _someone who reads the weather off of a teleprompter_ would be more prepared,” the man said with a teasing scrunch of his button nose. It turned up a bit at the end. Crowley clamped down on the ensuing thought: _cute_.

With a whoosh, Crowley found himself sheltered under an umbrella. Tartan. _Tartan?_ Who had a tartan-patterned umbrella besides little old ladies who did things like knit tea cozies and shove too-dry biscuits down your throat?

“Well,” the man said, urging him forward with a press of his elbow against Crowley’s arm. The umbrella teetered above them. “Best get a wiggle on. Get out of the rain.”

Dumbfounded, Crowley let the new producer lead him out of the lobby to his car. They splashed carefully through the gathering puddles and, but for the water on the bottom of his trousers, Crowley didn’t get a drop on him.

“Stay dry, Anthony,” the man admonished before turning away. Another flash of a smile.

“It’s Crowley,” Crowley snarled to no one in particular. He slammed his car door shut and stared at his steering wheel. His heart was doing something he didn’t like. Cranking the radio on, he drove away, happy to be out of the rain and one step closer to going somewhere he could be alone.

**

“You’re going to Tadfield,” Bee said, pointedly ignoring Crowley’s ensuing dramatic groan.

The newsroom was steadily emptying as the crew left for the night. The evening news had wrapped up and everyone wanted to hurry home and avoid the unseasonable cold.

“Not again. Not the bloody cheese rolling,” Crowley whined, doing his best impression of a sick dog, wide eyes behind his sunglasses and throaty whimpers. Maybe if he wheedled just right he could—

“It’s local color and one of our viewers’ favorite segments,” Bee pointed out as they waved a fly away from their steadily-cooling coffee. “Do you know the sort of ratings we get for it? I’m not cutting it so you can stop your whinging.”

“There’s supposed to be a snowstorm,” Crowley said, desperate for a reprieve. Four years he’d been covering the blasted Tadfield cheese rolling festival. Four years. And this would be a fifth. It never got more interesting.

“Please, it’s March. We won’t get a snowstorm this far south. Besides, you said yourself it’s going to divert north.”

“I can’t predict the weather,” Crowley grumbled. But Bee wasn’t listening, already pulled aside by Hastur for input on some other segment or advertising or whatever the hell it was Hastur did these days. He’d been at the station for years and Crowley still couldn’t figure out what the man did.

“Sounds like we’re going to Tadfield,” Newt said, coming up beside him and offering a supportive smile. Well, Crowley assumed it was supportive. Newt’s smiles were always at least 75% nervous. You had to guess at the other 25%. Crowley wasn’t in the market to care enough to guess, so he let Newt be nervous and mostly ignored the rest.

A soft laugh drew his attention and he looked over to the reporter’s desk. The new producer, all soft blond hair and twinkling eyes, was talking to the other anchor. Patricia, Crowley thought her name was. Not that it mattered. The pretty blonde ones always came and went quickly, on to something better before you could blink.

The new producer was smiling at the girl and Crowley remembered the way he had smelled of homey things like apple cinnamon candles and woodsmoke as that tartan umbrella had hovered over both of them, sheltering Crowley from the rain.

“Have you met the new producer? Aziraphale?” Newt asked, breaking through Crowley’s stupid, rose-colored thoughts.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose. What sort of ridiculous name was that? Maybe if he focused on the name, he would notice the other things less. Like how soft his sweatervest looked. Or how he made a bow tie look good.

“Yeah, Bee said he’s coming with us. Something about cutting his teeth on a live segment,” Newt said with a shrug. “Seems like a nice guy if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Crowley growled, steadily growing uncomfortable with the conversation and wanting it to be over. He’d already be stuck with Aziraphale for a day; he didn’t need to spend any extra time thinking about him.

Newt laughed nervously. 100% this time. “Right. See you in the van then?”

The worst part of the cheese-rolling festival was that Crowley had to stay in Tadfield the night before. Stay in Tadfield at the Tadfield Inn run by a woman who affectionately called herself Madame Tracy and who had no idea how to mind her own business. She was always asking after him, trying to see if he’d met _a nice young man,_ as she phrased it, shoving tea and biscuits on him like she was his Nan or something.

Crowley hated her.

The second-worst part of the cheese-rolling festival was riding for an hour in Newt’s news van. The boy had named it something stupid and every year he tried to get Crowley in on the joke. He told every new person the name and Crowley had yet to decide it was worth remembering. Besides having to be jammed in the thing with not one but _two_ people for the two hour drive to Tadfield, the van was also an absolute piece of shite. The station wouldn’t fork out the money for an upgrade, so they were stuck with this ancient, beat-up monstrosity with squeaky doors and heat you had to crank all the way up just to make it feel warm.

When Crowley crawled into the horrid tin can that evening, he realized the third-worst part of the cheese-rolling festival was having Aziraphale—sodding _Aziraphale_ —smiling brightly, and chattering over a to-go cup of tea in the backseat.

“I brought you coffee!” Aziraphale said, passing Crowley his own paper cup, fingers brushing his as Crowley took it.

Crowley looked at it speculatively and Aziraphale added, “Bee said you like your coffee black. But I picked up a few extra creams and sugars if you’re feeling up for a change.”

Crowley did not like his coffee black. But that’s what he drank at the office because he wanted to seem like the sort of person who liked his coffee black.

“Thanks,” he grunted, slurping at it so he didn’t have to talk. If he talked he was liable to say something stupid. Or mean.

“Do you always wear your sunglasses off-air?” Aziraphale asked with what sounded like real interest when they finally got on the road. He was ridiculously chipper. Was he always ridiculously chipper? Crowley hated chipper people.

“Yes,” Crowley answered gruffly, as he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes behind his glasses. “Do you always ask inane questions?”

Aziraphale huffed from the backseat. “No need to be rude. It was a simple question.”

Crowley grunted and took another slurp of his coffee. Great. His brain had the gall to be attracted to such a ridiculous person and then seemed smart enough to make Crowley be a prick to him. Bloody great.

“Do you think anyone will be injured this year?” Newt asked abruptly, a clear attempt to break the tense silence.

“I dunno. Might make the whole bloody thing more interesting,” Crowley said at the same time as Aziraphale cried, “Injured?!”

Crowley twisted around in his seat and smiled. The sort of smile that the big bad wolf gave the little pigs before eating them up. Aziraphale was soft. That much was clear. Crowley didn’t like soft. He ate soft people for breakfast. He shouldn’t feel this heat in his gut when he looked at him. His heart shouldn’t warm. He should be chasing Aziraphale off like the last producer until Bee would finally get the picture and let him do his own damned thing.

“Picture one hundred people chasing a cheese wheel down a hill. All sorts of limbs get in the way. Lots of little feet to trample.”

“Last year someone got kicked in the face,” Newt added with a solemn nod.

“Lots of blood,” Crowley said, still grinning, eyes searching Aziraphale’s face for a reaction. Putting his money on it, Aziraphale’s mouth should drop open in horror or he should turn pale.

Instead, all Aziraphale did was roll his eyes and then sighed in a long-suffering way. Maybe not that soft then.

“You are awful. Is he always like this?” Aziraphale asked Newt, who nodded.

Whatever. Newt could dislike him. No one at the station liked him. It was just work. Crowley didn’t want to be the sort of person who cared about work. He put in his hours and he went home where he could read his graphic novels or work on the cross stitches that no one needed to know about. That was it. That was life.

“Well, I’m looking forward to this,” Aziraphale announced decidedly. “I’ve never been to the festival and it sounds delightful.”

“What? A bunch of lads getting drunk and running down a hill after cheese?”

“Did you know it can go as fast as 100 kilometers per hour?” Newt added unhelpfully.

“Oh dear, that’s awfully fast.”

Crowley scoffed. Who said _oh dear_ unironically?

“I just think it’s nice. The camaraderie. The tradition,” Aziraphale said, sounding pointedly wistful like he was trying to use positivity to shut down Crowley’s cynicism. What Aziraphale didn’t know was that nothing shut down Crowley’s cynicism. It was never-ending.

“It’s ten pounds of absurdly fast cheese. That’s it,” Crowley retorted, turning his head to look out the window.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Aziraphale said, the insult still somehow sounding kind coming from his mouth in that posh voice. Crowley hated it.

“Spoilsport, that’s me,” Crowley said, before falling silent and staring out the window. Enough team bonding for the day. For the week actually.

And if he was lucky, for a whole month.

**

Tadfield was a tiny place. Some might call it picturesque but not Crowley. Crowley didn’t call anything picturesque. Even little towns with cottages on the outskirts, surrounded by rolling hills with only one traffic signal in the whole damn place: controlling the nonexistent traffic on a main street lined with little shops called things like “Kitsch Finders: Antiques and More” and “Agnes’s Nice and Accurate Cheddars.”

There was a single inn which filled to the brim the night before the cheese festival and probably sat empty the rest of the year. Because who in their right mind would want to spend more than one day in Tadfield?

“I’ve got us all rooms at the Tadfield Inn. I know it’s not five stars, but it’s very quaint,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward between the two front seats as Newt pulled up to the curb. The inn towered over them, it’s florid pink sign swinging in the wind, lace curtains in every window. Crowley wondered what would happen if he lobbed a rock at one of the windows. Probably not worth the yelling.

After they exited the van, Aziraphale brushed past him and Crowley caught a whiff of that homey, cinnamon smell. He immediately wished he hadn’t. It made him want to do stupid things like turn his head and bury his face in Aziraphale’s soft neck, tuck his nose into that little fold of skin above the collar of his shirt.

Instead of giving into the strange and utterly unhelpful urge, Crowley resorted to his normal taciturn behavior and snorted. “Say that after you stay here.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I don’t appreciate your attitude, Anthony.”

“Crowley,” he growled.

Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“Fine. Crowley,” he said with specific emphasis, like he found Crowley’s request distasteful.

Crowley ignored the way it made his stomach flop like a dead fish tossed onto a chopping board as he stomped up the steps to the inn. He didn’t need to get Aziraphale to like him. He just needed to get through tomorrow.

**

_Each morning I get up I die a little_

_Can’t barely stand on my feet!_

Blinking away sleep, Crowley opened his eyes and groaned. He’d never been a morning person and he _certainly_ wasn’t a 6 AM-is-the-best-time-of-day-and-aren’t-I-glad-to-go-climb-a-hill-to-watch-people-chase -a-wheel-of-cheese-down-it sort of person.

_Take a look in the mirror and cry_

Aziraphale was probably that sort of person. Crowley could just picture him in his room, already awake and dressed and bustling around, probably humming to himself. Or maybe he wasn’t all the way dressed. Maybe his collar was unbuttoned, the tails of his bow tie against his chest as he adjusted his sweater vest in the mirror. Crowley groaned and shoved a pillow over his eyes.

He clearly needed a shag. Or a wank. Or something to stop this awful fantasizing. He was not a fantasizer.

_But I just can't get no relief, Lord!_

Crowley reached out to grab his phone off the bedside table and glanced at the screen before shutting off his alarm. March 15th. Just another day. He’d be fine. He’d get up, get ready, and go about his day. And then he’d go home, take his paid time off for working on a bank holiday and sleep until he couldn’t anymore. He’d yet to meet that upper limit but he was about to try.

After a lukewarm shower (he’d never had a hot shower at the Tadfield Inn), he was combing his hair back into its normal style, ignoring the fact that he’d spent an extra ten minutes getting dressed—even though he’d put on the same thing he wore for all his field segments. Deep gray shirt, black blazer, black trousers. He didn’t have anyone he was trying to impress. Not in Tadfield.

Grabbing his phone and wallet, he ran down the steps to the first floor of the inn where he bumped into Madame Tracy. She batted her fake eyelashes at him coquettishly. “Back again this year, Mr. Crowley?”

“Got it in one. I’ll probably be here every year until the end of time,” Crowley said peevishly. What was the point of being polite? He’d made it fairly clear he wasn’t a fan of Tracy by obviously declining every single one of her attempts to get him to share tea with her. Being polite now would be a waste of all that hard work.

With a grimace, he scooted around her to grab some coffee. Not that it would make him feel less like a walking corpse, but there was something to be said for the placebo effect of hot coffee on a cold morning.

“Will you be checking out today? I heard there’s supposed to be a dreadful storm,” Tracy said, following him to the coffee stand. Unrelentingly friendly, as if Crowley’s demeanor wasn’t off-putting at all. What was wrong with her?

The other patrons were happily murmuring around him, the dining room packed full of eager people here for the festival, all wrapping up their breakfasts and heading out the door.

“Definitely,” Crowley said, snapping a lid on his paper coffee cup. “I’ll be out by noon. Don’t you worry.”

“Alright, just stay safe out there!” she called after him as he dashed out the door. He was running late.

Not that it mattered. Aziraphale might chastise him, but the man already didn’t like him. Crowley had seen to that the day before. Nobody liked Anthony Crowley and he wasn’t looking to change that.

He was walking down main street at a steady trot when someone shouted his name.

“Crowley? Anthony Crowley?”

The voice grated on his nerves and when he looked back he saw a woman with a slick black bob hurtling up to the sidewalk to greet him.

“It’s me! Mary Hodges. We went to secondary together,” she said with the most energetically false smile Crowley had ever seen. Practically a rictus.

It was the sort of terrifying smile that he should remember based on the sheer discomfort it set off in Crowley. But all he came up with was a blank.

“What are you doing in Tadfield?” she cried, seemingly not noticing that Crowley had no idea who she was.

“Er. I work on the news. I’m here for the festival,” he said, pointing in the general direction of Devil’s Hill.

“Oh, of course,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.

What was there to conspire about?

“If you’re in Tadfield long, I opened up a paintball course outside of town. It’s awfully popular. You should bring by your news crew. Wonderful bonding experience.”

“Er, right,” Crowley said, just wanting to walk away and not have this woman _smiling_ at him like that.

“Here’s my card,” she said, pressing a business card into his palm and giving it a condescending pat.

Weird.

Crowley turned around and walked directly into a lamppost, knocking his cup against his chest where it crumpled, coffee exploding over his coat and shirt.

“Fuck,” he said, throwing the cup to the ground. It rolled forlornly into the gutter.

“Oh!” she cried, laughing. “Watch your step.”

Trying to brush off the worst of the coffee on his coat, Crowley stumbled off the curb and headed towards Devil’s Hill. What a shit day. And fixing to get shittier.

“You’re late,” Aziraphale huffed when Crowley finally arrived. “I wanted to get the shot from the top of the hill, but this will have to do. We don’t have time to climb all the way up.”

“Right,” Crowley said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice as he knocked Aziraphale’s hands away when he tried to adjust his coat collar. Aziraphale pursed his lips when he noticed the stain on Crowley’s belly but didn’t comment as he shoved a microphone into Crowley's hand.

Newt held up his fingers and counted down. “In three, two,”— _one_ he mouthed, before pointing at Crowley.

Uninterested in the whole endeavor and frustrated by the rapidly cooling coffee on his shirt, Crowley ran through the same speech he gave every year.

“We’re here at Devil’s Hill outside Tadfield”— _yadda yadda yadda_ —“for the annual Cheese-Rolling Festival.” Maybe if he spoke faster, he could leave sooner. But Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly and, damn it all, if that didn’t make him want to do a decent job.

“The lucky participants are set to chase four kilograms of the finest Double Gloucester cheese down this hill. First to cross the finish line—or catch the cheese—wins the whole wheel. You can see our master of ceremonies spreading the bakery items at the starting line as the contestants line up.”

There were a million things that were weird about the Tadfield Cheese-Rolling Festival. One: chasing a cheese down a death trap masquerading as a hill. Two: that people actually wanted to chase said cheese. And three: for some reason, the master of ceremonies was required to toss bread rolls all over the top of the hill. It was a strange enough thing that Crowley asked about it one year. No one had a good answer. Tradition, they said. Sodding tradition.

Crowley stepped out of the line of the camera—like he did every year—and looked up the hill to watch as Shadwell—the master of ceremonies—dumped his basket of bread at the starting line. One errant loaf rolled down the hill and the hundreds of spectators lining the hill held their collective breath.

Shadwell reappeared, cheese in hand. He held it above his head and shouted something Crowley couldn't hear.

Shadwell released the cheese.

The whistle blew and then all the participants were running, tumbling, whooping as they came down the hill after the cheese. Dirt clods and grass were flying up behind them as their breath puffed in white clouds and the cheese thundered down the hill.

“Oh my,” Crowley heard Aziraphale breathe from behind the camera.

It was the smartest thing the man had said since they met.

Crowley watched as people tumbled down the hill, a few teens falling on their arses as they overbalanced. One kid, who couldn’t have been more than eleven, tried to grab at the cheese but missed.

It rolled full tilt over the finish line and was quickly followed by a man in a red football shirt who dove onto his belly to be the first to pass the line. The crowd broke into cheers as the man rolled the rest of the way down the hill. Besides a few grass stains and mussed hair, he was entirely unharmed. He sat up and pumped his hands in the air with a victorious whoop.

Meanwhile, the cheese finished its death run and smacked into the trunk of a tree before falling on its side with a thud.

Crowley stepped back into the shot. “Well, there you have it. Another...joyous year at the Tadfield Cheese-Rolling Festival.”

Newt cut the camera and Aziraphale was immediately at Crowley’s side taking away the microphone and saying all sorts of things like _that was quite good, perhaps speak slower in the future, I’m worried your speed might make it difficult for people to understand you._

“It’s my bloody voice and I’ve had it for years and never had any complaints,” Crowley snapped, rolling his shoulders as if to relieve the tension there. If only it worked. He wanted to get out of here. And _now._

Aziraphale humphed at him but didn’t press.

“I’ll see you at the van,” Crowley said brusquely before heading toward town. Newt and Aziraphale could meet him there. He thought he heard them murmur something behind him as he walked off, but it probably wasn’t important and it was probably rude.

The weather was growing steadily colder and Crowley hadn’t brought the right sort of coat. He was the first to admit he was a fashion over function sort of person but in this case he was regretting it. He huddled near the van, waiting for his coworkers who were apparently taking their sweet time as snow began to filter down from the thick cloud cover.

“This weather isn’t looking very promising,” Aziraphale observed as he and Newt loaded up the equipment.

Crowley rubbed his steadily numbing hands together and looked at the sky. He slipped on his sunglasses. “It’ll pass,” he said, before climbing into the front seat.

Crowley was wrong. The further south they went on the M40, the worse it got. Traffic slowed to a crawl and Crowley began to feel a panic settle deep in his bones when it stopped entirely. Snow was coming down in sheets and the roads were white with it. The van’s shit windshield wipers hardly cleared their field of vision when they finally stopped moving entirely.

A traffic cop appeared outside their window and knocked on the glass.

When Newt rolled it down, the man yelled over the wind, “We’re shutting down the roads. Too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous?” Crowley nearly shouted over Newt’s lap and right into the cop’s face. “Isn’t that our decision?”

“Not anymore,” the cop said, looking extremely unimpressed by Crowley’s tone.

Crowley felt a warm hand on his shoulder and when he looked back, Aziraphale was giving him a sympathetic look. “It’s alright, Crowley. We’ll just go back to Tadfield and leave in the morning. Did you have important plans for the evening?”

Crowley flopped back into his seat. “No. Just don’t want to be in bloody Tadfield for another sodding minute.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said from behind him, the sound disapproving enough that it made Crowley want to turn around and explain himself. Or apologize.

He didn’t.

He sulked his entire way through evening, dismissing Aziraphale’s invitation to the pub— _Might as well make the most of being stuck!_ —and curling up in bed feeling sorry for himself.

Crowley just wanted to go home.

**

_Each morning I get up I die a little_

Crowley opened his eyes and groaned, rolling over discontentedly. The clock on the phone screen read 6 AM.

Growling, Crowley realized he must have set his phone alarm wrong. They’d agreed to leave at 8 and he’d had magnificent plans to roll out of bed at 7:30 and go right back to sleep in the van.

He smacked off the alarm with a few messy slaps and tried to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, his bladder refused to let him.

Crawling out of bed and grumbling the whole while, Crowley took a piss and brushed his teeth. Now that he was awake, he might as well get ready. A two hour drive would be less disgusting after showering anyway.

Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned on the shower and sighed. Two hours in a van with Aziraphale and Newt. Newt he could handle. He’d been handling him for years. But this Aziraphale fellow was a new problem. Just thinking about him made Crowley’s heart race and palms sweat. Aziraphale was just another bloke, Crowley reminded himself. Sure he had sea glass eyes and feathery soft blond hair and the sort of body that Crowley just wanted to _sink_ into but…

Nope. Bad thoughts. No thoughts like that about coworkers. No thoughts like that about anyone. Crowley was single and happily so because alone was what Crowley was and alone was what Crowley liked.

Crowley tugged on his coat and grabbed his suitcase before making his way down the stairs. He’d grab some coffee and be off.

“Back again this year, Mr. Crowley?” Madame Tracy asked from the foot of the staircase.

Crowley blinked. She’d been here yesterday when he’d checked back in...was she going soft in the head?

“I was here yesterday,” Crowley said and Tracy gave him an odd look.

“Right. Well, will you be checking out today? I heard there was supposed to be a dreadful storm.”

Crowley froze at the coffee stand, nearly dropping his cup. Was he dreaming? Was this just deja vu?

He put down the cup and pulled out his phone, thumbing open the home screen.

_March 15th 7:02 AM_

No.

No. No. No. _No._

“I don’t know,” he said, gaping at his phone as he stumbled to the door.

It opened to reveal...a bare street. No snow. Not a single flake. There were people on the streets, dressed in warm clothes and all bustling in the same direction. With a sinking feeling, Crowley rushed onto the sidewalk and stopped the first woman he saw. “Where are you going?”

“Out to Devil’s Hill. For the festival!” the woman said with a smile, before jogging to catch up with her friends.

Crowley’s stomach dropped. In a daze, he walked through town only to be accosted by:

“Crowley? Anthony Crowley?”

He turned to see the same woman as the day before, slick bob tucked behind her ears. He pasted a smile on his face with some difficulty. What the fuck was happening?

“Mary Hodges?”

“Oh! You remember me!” she cried. And then she hugged him. Crowley froze. When was the last time someone had hugged him? Fuck. A year at least.

He told himself that the reason his whole body cried out was because he hated it. Because he did hate it. Crowley was not the hugging kind.

“What are you doing in Tadfield?” she said when she pulled back.

“Er, just in the area. Work,” he replied.

“Well, if you’re in Tadfield long, I opened up a paintball course outside of town. It’s awfully popular. You should bring your coworkers along. Wonderful bonding experience, better than any motivational speaker. We’ve won awards you know.”

Crowley said nothing as she jammed a card into his hand. He stared at it as he turned around and walked directly into the same lamppost as the day before.

“Oh!” she cried, laughing that same shrill laugh as Crowley’s coffee poured down his shirt and coat, burning his skin. “Watch your step!”

Crowley groaned, starting low and growing in intensity as he chucked his cup onto the street. This was insane. He was insane.

At the base of Devil’s Hill, he found Newt and Aziraphale setting up.

“You’re late,” Aziraphale huffed. “I wanted to get the shot from the top of the hill but this will have to do. We don’t have time to climb all the way up.”

“Right,” Crowley said numbly, letting Aziraphale adjust his coat collar before a microphone was shoved into his hand.

Newt held up his fingers and counted down. “In three, two,”— _one_ he mouthed before pointing at Crowley.

Crowley held the microphone to his mouth out of habit and began to talk, the same speech from every year—from _yesterday_ —falling from his lips by rote.

“We’re here at Devil’s Hill outside Tadfield for the annual Cheese-Rolling Festival. One hundred lucky participants are set to chase four kilograms of the finest Double Gloucester cheese down this hill. First to cross the finish line—or catch the cheese—wins the whole wheel. You can see our master of ceremonies spreading the baked goods at the starting line as the contestants line up.”

Crowley stepped out of the shot when the whistle blew followed by the thundering of feet as the participants crashed down the hill with the same mayhem and shouting as yesterday.

And then it was over. The same man from the day before in the same red jersey throwing himself over the finish line in the same way.

The whistle blew.

Crowley dropped the mic on the ground and wandered away.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called after him but Crowley didn’t stop. What was happening to him?

He heard a huffing as Aziraphale jogged up to him. “You can’t just wander off. We need to leave.”

“We won’t be able to leave,” Crowley said, turning to him and not for the first time feeling bowled over by the sheer blueness of Aziraphale’s eyes. Ethereal.

“What?”

“There’s going to be a snow storm.”

Aziraphale snorted. “I thought you said that you couldn’t predict the weather.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Crowley said.

And when he went to bed that night, there was snow blanketing the streets of Tadfield. He set his alarm to _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_ and hoped that tomorrow would make even the slightest bit more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! welcome to groundhog day redux but set in England.
> 
> The cheese rolling festival is a real thing and it's wild af! You can read about and watch videos of it [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cooper%27s_Hill_Cheese-Rolling_and_Wake). It looks terrifying.
> 
> I made an awful parody poster for this fic which you can see [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/612667446928850944/the-annual-tadfield-cheese-rolling-festival-by)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> isolation means a faster update schedule! Wahoo!
> 
> thanks for reading! i hope you're enjoying the romcom fest! check out the collection this fic is in for other fun adaptations!
> 
> cw: non graphic violence, some blood

_Each morning I get up I die a little_

Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he picked up his phone with growing dread. He’d set a different song as his alarm the night before.

He flipped open his lock screen, already knowing what it would say.

_March 15th_

He threw his phone against the wall with a frustrated shout and then pulled the blankets over his head. This wasn’t possible. There was no way this was possible. The same day three times? He had to be going insane.

He tossed the blankets off. If that was true, he needed help.

And wasn’t that a producer’s job?

He didn’t even shower, just got dressed hurriedly and rushed off to Devil’s Hill.

“Aziraphale, I need to talk to you,” he said quickly, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm and dragging him away from Newt.

“You don’t look very good,” Aziraphale said, shrugging off his hand. “Do you have a fever?”

“I don’t know what I have,” Crowley said. He was desperate at this point. He didn’t care if he looked like a fool. He needed answers. “I think I’m sick. I _must_ be sick. I need a doctor. Something.”

“Are you well enough to do the segment?” Aziraphale asked, seemingly torn between taking care of Crowley and doing his job.

He groaned. “Yes. Fine. We’ll do the segment. But after...you have to help me. I need someone to talk to.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly and gave him an awkward, supportive pat on the arm. Crowley shouldn’t have leaned into it like a cat into a particularly good scratch, but he couldn’t help himself. He was emotionally compromised.

Newt rolled the camera and Crowley said, fast as possible, “We’re at Devil’s Hill outside of Tadfield for the annual cheese rolling festival. First one to catch the cheese wins.”

He dropped his mic and added, “Keep rolling on the hill. I’ve got to talk to Aziraphale.”

Newt goggled at him as Aziraphale protested, “Excuse me, that sort of direction is my job.”

“Not today,” Crowley said, dragging Aziraphale off by the arm.

“This is quite unusual, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, but he let Crowley lead him along and when they were finally settled in the pub, Crowley ordered a pint, gesturing for Aziraphale to order if he wanted.

“A bit early I think,” Aziraphale said, admonishment clear in his voice. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Look, I’m going to tell you something and you’re going to think I’m mad. And maybe I am.” Crowley took a deep breath. This was terrifying. But he had to tell someone. Why the hell had he chosen Aziraphale?

 _Because you need help and he seems like a kind person,_ the reasonable part of his mind said.

A meaner voice hissed back, _it’s because you’re obsessed with him._

“I don’t know what’s going on, but for some reason I’m reliving the same day. _Today_ ,” he said in a rush. The beer was settling heavy in his stomach and not calming his nerves at all. Maybe he needed something stronger.

“Reliving?” Aziraphale asked, looking at him as if he were daft. Well, that was basically what Crowley had expected.

“Yes. March 15th. Reliving March 15th. This is the third time,” Crowley said. He desperately needed Aziraphale to believe him.

Aziraphale looked at him with concern. A soft hand came and landed atop his where it was curled on the worktop of the bar. “My dear, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but I think you need professional help.”

Crowley barely heard him. His hand was so soft. Crowley stared at it, fine manicured nails, a small ring on his pinky. He wanted to turn his hand over and tangle their fingers together.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, swallowing thickly. “Professional help. Yeah.”

Aziraphale nodded decisively. “I’ll go with you to hospital.”

Crowley took a fortifying sip of his beer. It was going to be a long day. But he’d take a long day if it meant tomorrow would be a new one.

* * *

Two X-rays, a cat scan and a humiliating psychiatry appointment later, Crowley was slumped at the pub, no closer to having an answer to his predicament but thankfully much closer to being drunk.

“Looking a bit sad there, laddie,” a voice said to his left. He turned with a frown to who he recognized as the master of ceremonies from the hill. Shadwell.

“M’not sad. M’existential,” Crowley said before finishing his beer.

Shadwell frowned at him. “I can’t say I know exactly what that means but the next one’s on me. It’s a festival!”

“It’s sodding cheese,” Crowley said under his breath but accepted the beer gratefully.

The young lady bartending pulled him a pint and passed it to him.

“Oi, pub girl,” Crowley said. “I have a question.”

The girl raised her eyebrows and said, “Aren’t you too old to be hitting on me?”

Crowley gasped in theatrical offense “Me? Old? Bit rude. Besides, you’re not a bloke. Wouldn’t be hitting on you if I _were_ young.”

The girl relaxed slightly. “What’s your question?”

“If you only had one day to live, and there were no consequences, what would you do?”

The girl hummed. “No consequences?”

“No consequences.”

She tapped her nails against the bar top. “I guess I’d spend a load of money. Get drunk. Break the law.”

Crowley leaned forward, mind suddenly lighting up with possibility.

“Actually, I think I’d tell everyone how I really felt about them. Good and bad. Go out with no secrets,” she said with a firm nod.

“You know what, pub girl?”

Pub girl scowled at him, eyebrows drawing together over her round glasses and making her look cute in a schoolgirl sort of way.

“My name’s Anathema.”

“Anathema, then,” Crowley said, lifting his glass and draining it before slamming it down on the counter. “This one’s for you.”

Crowley clambered up onto his stool and then onto the bar. “Oi!”

A few people around him looked up at him and silence fell in steadily growing circles around him. Hushed whispers and pointed fingers.

“Oi!” he yelled again and a handful more people turned to him.

“I’m Anthony Crowley,” he said as loudly as he could. “And I hate this town.”

The hushed whispers turned incensed.

“Shut up, you ponce!” someone shouted from the back of the room. But Crowley was not about to shut up. He had things to say. About five years of things to say.

“Tadfield is the worst sort of small town with the worst sort of small people. You’re boring and stupid and your lives are totally meaningless. You worship _cheese_ for God’s sake!”

Crowley felt a hand tugging on his ankle and he looked down to see endless gray eyes full of concern. Aziraphale.

“What?”

“Get down from there,” Aziraphale hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Crowley knocked his hand away with his foot and turned back to the room at large. “This whole thing is an embarrassment! A farce! Every single one of you is a pathetic excuse for a person!”

Shadwell appeared next to Aziraphale, brow furrowed.

“And you,” Crowley said, joyful mania carrying him through this tirade. It felt so good to finally say it all. Sod the world and sod Tadfield along with it.

“Master of Cheese Rolling Bullshit,” Crowley sang mockingly, arms out wide. “Shadwell! You’re the worst of the lot!”

“Laddie, you might want to get down from there,” Shadwell growled but Crowley ignored him as he started to roll up his sleeves.

“The bread! What is with the blasted bread?”

“It’s tradition!” Shadwell bellowed, grabbing Crowley by the heels and yanking him down off the bar.

For a seventy year old man, he was quite strong.

Crowley found this out when his head knocked into the floor and he saw stars. In the blurry edges of his vision, he saw Aziraphale trying to hold Shadwell back, but it didn’t matter because the other residents of Tadfield seemed just as happy to carry out what he started. Starting with a punch to the face.

By the time he was finally tossed out of the pub and into the snow, Crowley had a mouth full of blood and probably a few bruised ribs. He laid on the ground and stared at the sky, snowflakes dancing in his vision as he started to laugh.

Aziraphale appeared, leaning over him, the streetlamps haloing his head. “Crowley, have you gone mad?”

He sounded angry.

“Maybe!” Crowley said with a grin. Blood trickled over his lips but it _didn’t matter_. For the first time in his existence, Crowley could say what he wanted to say when he wanted to say it and not give a shit what other people thought. He could be _himself._ It didn’t matter if he was an arse, or if people didn’t like him. He could say absolutely _anything_.

So he said, “You look like an angel, you know.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he helped Crowley to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Only if you come with me,” Crowley said, and maybe a little blood came out with the words but no more than a teaspoon.

“Remind me never to drink with you again,” Aziraphale said, leaving him in a pile on the steps of the inn before retreating inside.

* * *

_Each morning I get up I die a little_

Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed his phone off the nightstand. March 15th.

He sat up in bed, grinning. March 15th!

He took an extra long time in the shower. Where did he need to be? Not the thrice-damned cheese rolling festival. The world would go on without him for twenty-four hours and then he’d have twenty-four more. He could do what he wanted, say what he wanted. Maybe he was mad but it was starting to feel like a blessing.

Thoroughly scrubbed and very satisfied, Crowley returned to his bedroom, ready to settle in with a movie and do absolutely nothing for a day. He’d earned a break after the hell he went through. Well, unless _this_ was hell of course. But it didn’t feel like it, he decided as he nestled into the—

There was a pounding at the door.

Fuck.

“What?” he shouted, disgruntled as he revised the hell-theory.

“Open the door this instant, Anthony!”

Crowley’s heart twisted at the anger in Aziraphale’s voice.

“My name is _Crowley_ ,” he growled, yanking open the door with a scowl. He didn’t want to feel guilty. So he wouldn’t.

But there was Aziraphale, pink-cheeked and huffing, his bow tie slightly askew. Crowley’s hands itched to straighten it.

_Do what you want. No consequences._

He reached out and tweaked the tie, watching it draw parallel to Aziraphale’s chin and yanking his hand back when Aziraphale gasped.

“Where were you?” Aziraphale demanded after a brief stammering start. “Just—just sleeping in?”

Crowley looked behind him and grimaced. Based on the state of his room, that certainly looked like what he’d been doing. The telly was on and the bed was rumpled. Crowley was in his penguin-printed pajamas with wet hair. Not a good look.

“Look, I didn’t need to be at the stupid festival. So I didn’t go.”

“This is your job, Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted. Crowley honestly thought he might stomp his foot. Which would’ve been adorable. The thought stuttered to a stop in Crowley’s mind.

He paused and looked at the man in his doorway. He was soft. Crowley couldn’t deny that. His jaw was nothing to speak of. In fact, it ran down into a slight roll before meeting the collar of his shirt. His stomach pushed out against the fabric of his sweater vest. In demeanor, Aziraphale was all nervous hands and huffing breaths. But those eyes. They pinned Crowley. Storm gray and so deep, like the whole world could be contained behind them. Crowley had seen the way Aziraphale smiled at everyone but him, the way his eyes formed deep, happy, unselfconscious creases.

“What are you staring at?” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley licked his lips.

No consequences?

He grasped Aziraphale’s face and yanked him up into a searing kiss. Aziraphale gasped into it, body stumbling forward slightly. Crowley’s whole body lit up, waves of electricity emanating from the point where their lips touched. He wanted it to last forever.

Unfortunately, it didn't because suddenly a strong hand on his chest pushed him back. Crowley spluttered in surprise, already mourning the loss of that beautiful mouth.

Aziraphale’s face was red, his lips a kiss-bitten pink that had Crowley’s stomach turning over.

“How dare you?” Aziraphale demanded, gorgeous eyes glittering and turning darker by the second.

“I—”

And then Aziraphale punched him.

Crowley stumbled back, back slamming into the open door as he clutched at his nose. Aziraphale shook out his hand and glared at him. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again.”

Crowley groaned as his nose started to bleed.

“And you will always be on time to shoots,” Aziraphale said before turning on his heel to go. He hesitated before looking back at Crowley. “And you will be nicer to Newt,” he added firmly before walking off.

Crowley pinched his bleeding nostrils. He didn’t think it was broken but it was certainly bleeding.

The pain in his nose was nothing compared to the nausea in his stomach. What was this? Did he...did he feel guilty?

_Fuck._

Maybe _no consequences_ needed to be amended to no _long lasting_ consequences.

* * *

It became clear after five more March 15ths of sleeping in:

Always do the morning segment or Aziraphale will come to your door and yell at you which will ultimately result in you feeling terrible for the rest of the day or doing something stupid like try to spend more time with him.

But doing the segment changed nothing. Aziraphale still pursed his lips at him and lectured him and acted like Crowley was an arsehole.

Which he was but that was beside the point.

He spent his evenings sulking and drinking and eating terrible food. He just wanted to stop thinking about Aziraphale. He wanted to be able to go to the pub and not stare wistfully at him from across the room.

On the eighth March 15th, he was three pints deep and feeling sorry for himself when he realized what he should do. Complete immersion. What was that saying? The only way out is through?

He was going to spend more time with Aziraphale. He had God only knew how many March 15ths to look forward to and he was going to spend at least one in Aziraphale’s company because why not? _And_ maybe some time with him would put a stop to this obsession.

God, what if he managed to shag him? The thought made his trousers grow tight. Maybe that’s what he needed. If he could get Aziraphale into bed, he could forget this entire thing and get on with his life.

Crowley wasted three days working up the nerve to do anything.

Finally, after his stupid unending segment, Crowley dropped his microphone, unable to look away from Aziraphale who was happily chatting with Newt about something he couldn’t hear. His breath was coming in short white puffs and his cheeks were pink with the cold. He was...he was…

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, mouth a bloody runaway train. The man looked up and gave him a tentative smile.

“Good segment, Crowley,” Aziraphale began, likely assuming Crowley wanted to talk about work. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about. “Perhaps you could use a little more energy. You seemed terribly solemn but your speed was—”

“Want to get a drink?” Crowley asked. Newt made a little squeaking sound that was _probably_ a choked laugh and Crowley vowed to make sure he had a minor injury before the day was out. Something non-fatal. Probably.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s 8 AM.”

“Coffee then,” Crowley said. “I’ll buy you coffee. Or breakfast. The To Bean or Not to Bean has a decent omelette. And pretty good bread.”

Cocking his head, Aziraphale looked at Newt in silent question. The lad shrugged.

“What do you want, Crowley? You don’t need to butter me up with breakfast or what have you. You can just ask. I’m your producer,” he said. “I’m meant to help you.”

Crowley’s stomach did a forlorn tap dance, but he pushed on.

“I want to get to know you better,” Crowley said with a shrug. Which was true but not the whole story. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I had a bad day yesterday and took it out on you. Let me make it up to you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Newt shake his head as he began to pack up his equipment.

Aziraphale seemed to be thinking very hard, gray eyes twinkling in the cold as he considered Crowley. “Alright. I don’t see what it could hurt. It’s probably best to get to know each other. We’ll work better together that way.”

Crowley sighed in relief. Now he just had to be on his best behavior.

The cafe in town was full to bursting after the excitement of the morning but they managed to get a table. Crowley ordered a hazelnut latte which had Aziraphale looking at him askance as he ordered earl grey tea.

“So,” Crowley said, leaning onto his elbows in order to be closer to Aziraphale and be heard over the racket of people recounting the festival. The entire cheese rolling had taken less than five minutes so Crowley had no idea what there was to recount. “What got you into producing?”

“Right to the heart of it then,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, like this was a conversation he’d had a number of times. “How about you tell me what got you into newscasting?”

Crowley shrugged. A topic he didn’t love, but he supposed he’d asked for it. “Studied journalism at uni. I wanted to be a writer but at my first gig I got tapped to run the weather then the special interest pieces. The producers there said something about interesting faces being good for ratings. I dunno. It’s a living you know.”

Aziraphale cocked his head, eyes moving over Crowley’s face. “I suppose you do have an interesting face. Memorable.”

Crowley’s ears began to grow hot under Aziraphale’s obvious scrutiny. “Enough about me,” he said, waving his hand. “I asked you first.”

Aziraphale sighed. The waitress appeared and set their drinks in front of them. Aziraphale gave her a grateful smile and Crowley immediately wanted to see that smile turned in his direction.

“I didn’t always want to do this work. I actually studied Classical Theater.”

Crowley cocked his head. “I didn’t even know you could get a degree in that. What would that even include? Shakespeare, I’d wager.”

“Yes. Shakespeare, Marlowe, the like,” Aziraphale said and Crowley wondered at the blush staining his cheeks. It wasn’t embarrassing to study something like that.

“You must be awfully clever,” Crowley said frankly.

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped to meet his. “Re—really?” he looked unsure for the first time since Crowley had seen him. “No smarmy comment about useless degrees?”

“Well, I dunno. Theater. That must come in handy for producing television. Sort of theater really. Not that I’m any sort of expert,” Crowley said. That was definitely rambling. He was nervous. Which was stupid. He was being stupid.

Aziraphale continued to stare at him, shell-shocked. “That was—that was almost considerate. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to get a jab in?”

“M’not trying to be rude or anything. Just asking a question,” Crowley said petulantly. This was stupid. What had he been thinking?

“You can’t blame me for expecting a bit of rudeness,” Aziraphale said. “I know we’ve just met but you’ve hardly been polite.”

The crepes Aziraphale had ordered were placed in front of him and his entire face lit up. Crowley made a mental note to find out what other things made Aziraphale look like that.

“Yeah, I’m an arse, that’s not news,” Crowley said glumly as he stabbed at his eggs benedict. This wasn’t going as well as he’d thought. One good exchange and they were already on Crowley’s shit behavior.

“Maybe you’re not as bad as you think,” Aziraphale said softly and Crowley met his eyes. His heart skipped a beat like he was in some sort of stupid film. Aziraphale looked earnest, his gray eyes shining in the ugly fluorescent lighting. No one should look that beautiful in this sort of lighting. Unfair was what it was.

“Good,” Crowley said, swallowing with some difficulty. And it was good. One step closer to getting Aziraphale to trust him.

Newt clanged through the cafe door and approached their table. “Dick Turpins’ ready when you are.”

Crowley laughed. Actually laughed. Not cruelly or mockingly. Just laughed, shocking himself. “What would you guys say to staying in Tadfield an extra day? Avoiding the snow and seeing the sights?” Crowley asked. Two pairs of eyes turned on him in shock.

“You hate Tadfield,” Newt pointed out.

Not taking his eyes off Aziraphale, Crowley said, “It’s growing on me.”

The day went downhill from there. Crowley took Aziraphale and Newt to the antique shop and made mocking jokes about people who collected entire sets of china. Because china was for posh bastards.

Turned out Aziraphale was a posh bastard himself and Crowley had put his foot in it. Aziraphale had huffed and turned his back on Crowley, deciding to consult with Newt instead.

When the snow started to blanket the streets, they took refuge in the pub. Crowley watched sullenly as Newt and the pub girl hit it off by the bar. Well, as much as Newt could hit it off with anyone which was, in this case, making the girl laugh.

“You know,” Aziraphale began, leaning over the table they were sharing in the far corner of the Four Horsemen. “I heard we actually get to taste the cheese.”

Crowley snorted bitterly. This earned him a sharp look, and he scrubbed a hand over his mouth, pretending he hadn’t made any noise at all. “Yeah, er, depends on the winner. Some of them are pretty greedy.”

“Have you ever had it though? I hear it’s the same every year.”

“It’s not like I stick around long enough to try the cheese, Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale scowled at him. _That_ was certainly the final nail in the coffin of trying to get Aziraphale to like him enough to go to bed with him.

Good thing he had a few more days to try.

* * *

And every morning Crowley got up and tried.

And he failed.

Over and over and over again.

One day it was:

“Get breakfast with me?” Crowley said, as Aziraphale fussed with his jacket, tutting about how it was too cold for such light clothes.

Aziraphale’s hands dropped to his sides. “B-breakfast? Don’t you want to leave? I thought you were ready to leave the minute this was over.”

Crowley shrugged, heart racing. He wished he could tell the truth, but the truth made Aziraphale think he was mad and that wouldn’t get him any closer to shagging him and getting this out of his system.

“Never stuck around to see what the fuss is about,” Crowley said. “Might be fun.”

Aziraphale looked at him warily but let Crowley take him to breakfast.

“So,” Crowley said, deciding to start with a different question because last time hadn’t worked out quite so well. “Where are you from?”

Aziraphale cut into his belgian waffle. “London actually. Yourself?”

“Can’t tell by my accent?” Crowley asked, a bit of predatory flirting creeping into his voice. Shit, he’d need to cut that out. Aziraphale would hardly want to go to bed with him if he was being sleazy.

“Somewhere up north certainly,” Aziraphale said primly, a dollop of whipped cream on the corner of his mouth. Crowley wanted to lick it.

“Got it in one,” Crowley said. He’d gotten crepes in hopes of having something to talk with Aziraphale about, but the man had gotten waffles. He must have a sweet tooth.

Silence fell and Crowley grasped for something to say besides _let me lick your whole face starting with that dollop of cream_.

Aziraphale saved him from his stupid thoughts.

“I heard the shop that makes the cheese is in town here. Do you think I could meet the proprietors? I’d love to ask some questions.”

“Why would you want to meet some idiot cheese makers?” Crowley asked incredulously and Aziraphale’s easy smile disappeared, expression going cold.

“You certainly don’t have to come,” Aziraphale said, pushing away his half-eaten waffle. He rifled in his pocket and tossed down a bill. “Thank you for breakfast but I think I’ll be going. I should check on Newt.”

Crowley watched him go and swore under his breath.

Another day was:

“Want to meet the people who make the cheese wheel?” Crowley asked as they walked back into town the next day.

Aziraphale perked up. “That would be quite interesting. I wonder how long it takes to make ten pounds of Gloucester. It seems like quite the undertaking.”

They went to the cheese shop and when the proprietor offered them a slice of Blue Stilton, Crowley took a bite and promptly spit it onto the floor. “That is disgusting.”

Aziraphale had immediately apologized to Agnes—who seemed more shocked than angry—and dragged Crowley out of the shop just as snow began to sift down from the sky.

“You are deplorable,” Aziraphale said, stomping his foot and Crowley’s stomach roiled with guilt.

“Look, it’s not my fault that woman makes cheese that tastes like dirty socks.”

Aziraphale let out an angry groan and turned on his heel. “Blue Stilton is _supposed_ to taste like that, you wretched man. I’m going to find Newt. Have a nice day, Crowley. Try not to alienate anyone else before we leave tomorrow.”

Crowley watched him march away, desperation swelling unbearably in his chest. It shouldn’t be so hard to seduce someone.

And so it went.

Each day, getting up.

Each day, failing.

* * *

_Each morning I get up I die a little_

Crowley groaned.

Day who-the-fuck-knew. He couldn’t exactly keep a record. Around day twenty he’d stopped trying to count, the sharpie marks on his arms and scratches in the bedside table always disappeared. Just his vague sense of time made him certain it had to have been over a hundred repetitions at this point.

Every minute he spent with Aziraphale, he wanted to press him up against the nearest wall and taste his mouth again. He hadn’t kissed him since that first time when Aziraphale had decked him. The man had a mean punch—which was sort of unbearably sexy. But Crowley still wanted to kiss him.

Crowley wanted to kiss him when they’d shared terrible fish and chips at the Four Horseman. Crowley wanted to kiss him after they spent an evening talking on a park bench in the town square and the snow made Aziraphale look like an angel. He wanted to kiss Aziraphale when he smiled at Crowley supportively behind the camera, when his eyelashes fluttered like he was shy.

But Aziraphale didn’t even _like_ him. He would get breakfast with him or humor him over a drink, but his eyes never lost their strained quality when Crowley was with him. He always looked one step away from making an excuse and leaving.

It was nothing like how he looked when he talked to Madame Tracy or Newt or Pub Girl. _That_ Aziraphale was all trusting eyes and open smiles. It made Crowley feel things and he hated it.

He wanted to put a stop to all this. Anthony Crowley did not have feelings for people.

It took several more failed March 15ths for Crowley to figure it out. He was lying in bed as the snow piled up outside, staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for himself, when he realized he _could_ make Aziraphale like him. He had all the information he needed. Every day he spent with Aziraphale he had learned new ways to get in his good graces. Those first few days, he never got Aziraphale to stay with him for more than a few hours, but inch by inch he was getting better. Aziraphale loved Shakespeare and 18th century French poetry, even though he could only read it in translation. He loved cakes and sweet things and even though he liked the Gloucester that had rolled down the hill, he preferred Camembert. When Crowley had offered to buy him a pound of the stuff the second time they visited Agnes’s, he’d turned a lovely shade of pink.

He already knew all of that. He just needed to study up. He could read Shakespeare and poetry and use that to impress Aziraphale. He had as many March 15ths as he needed to memorize some sonnets. Aziraphale would like that. He was sure of it.

And maybe, if he played all of that to his advantage, he would finally get Aziraphale to come back to his room where he could kiss him stupid. Then he could move on and start enjoying this damned existence once and for all.

There had to be pros to this whole thing.

Besides being able to catalogue every single one of Aziraphale’s smiles.

* * *

An indeterminate number of March 15ths later, Crowley asked Aziraphale to breakfast again. He extended the invitation to Newt as well because Aziraphale liked polite people for whatever reason—not people who ignored their crew or spat cheese on the floor of a shop.

Newt declined (like he always did) and Crowley took Aziraphale to the only breakfast place in town, watching quietly as he ordered french toast. One of the many fascinating things about Aziraphale was that he always ordered something different. The one point of uniqueness in this hellish time loop.

Now he just had to bring up the topics he’d studied.

“So what got you into producing?” Crowley asked, a question he’d asked Aziraphale multiple times.

Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t actually expect to end up here,” he said. “But I like it well enough.”

“What did you expect?” Crowley asked carefully. No missteps today. Just chatting with Aziraphale and finding ways to make him _like_ him.

“I studied Classical Theater at university, so I don’t actually believe I was planning ahead actually.” Aziraphale laughed self consciously but Crowley was ready.

“Classical Theater? Like Shakespeare? Marlowe?”

Aziraphale brightened. “Oh yes! I loved it very much. Even if it wasn’t the most useful thing to study.”

“What’s your favorite Shakespeare? I’m a _Much Ado_ fan myself,” Crowley said. He’d only read about six of the plays but he’d tried to get through the heavy hitters.

Aziraphale got even more excited; he looked to be practically vibrating. “You’ll probably think I’m very cliche but I just love _Hamlet_.”

“Bit gloomy,” Crowley replied, smiling because Aziraphale was smiling and this felt like he was winning a race. The crowd was cheering.

“That’s true. Oh, but the _language_. The cultural impact,” Aziraphale said, going a bit dreamy eyed. “I’ve read it a ridiculous number of times.”

“Not one for the comedies then?”

“Oh no, I love those as well,” Aziraphale rushed to say. “Do you know any Marlowe? I have a soft spot for _Tamburlaine_.”

Crowley hesitated. To lie or not to lie. He hadn’t gotten to Marlowe.

He took a deep breath.

“Can’t say I have. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

* * *

They talked all the way until lunch over refills of coffee and tea as Crowley pulled out bits of obscure knowledge. He’d managed to accumulate quite a few about French poets and Shakespeare’s tragedies. It was going so well and then he slipped up. He got too comfortable.

Aziraphale had started discussing Macbeth when Crowley finally fucked up.

“That one had some good lines but I didn’t follow the plot very well,” Crowley said. “I listened on audiobook while I worked on a cross stitch that I—”

He shouldn’t have said that. He immediately clamped his mouth shut. He wasn’t supposed to tell Aziraphale about his stupid hobbies. He was supposed to impress him with their similarities and his wit and make him smile. To get him into bed. Yes. Not just smile. Crowley had a goal.

Aziraphale goggled at him. “Cross stitch? You cross stitch?”

“Erm.”

What to say? Yes? My grandmother taught me when I was young and I never stopped? It calms me down? Helps me focus?

Crowley took a deep breath. If Aziraphale thought he was a loser, he could try again tomorrow and keep the cross stitch thing under his hat.

“Yeah. I know it’s a bit weird but—”

“I cross stitch!” Aziraphale said, bouncing excitedly. “Well, it’s more embroidery. I’m quite dreadful at it, but it is a wonderful way to pass the time.”

Crowley struggled to find a coherent response.

And then Aziraphale smiled at him. The smile reached his eyes.

* * *

This March 15th was turning out better than any of the ones before it.

“This wasn’t at all what I expected to happen when you asked to get breakfast,” Aziraphale finally said over dinner at the fanciest restaurant in Tadfield. Which wasn’t saying much but they did have decent wine.

Crowley cocked his head. “Yeah?”

“I thought you were going to be demanding and rude. You were just so—so _mean_ when we drove in together and I thought, oh it’s just another arsehole newscaster, but today...I suppose first impressions aren’t everything.” Aziraphale looked at his plate and his cheeks grew pink.

“I mean, you were right to think that way. I was an arse to you,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale leaned forward and placed his hand over Crowley’s. It was warm and it sent delicious tingles up Crowley’s arm. He wanted to kiss him so badly, lay him back on cool sheets and call him angel.

“Well, I forgive you.”

After dinner, they walked down the main street, Aziraphale chattering about the snow and Crowley was absolutely charmed by it.

“Perhaps when we get back to the city…” Aziraphale paused in his speech and Crowley looked over at him to make sure he was alright. He was staring at his feet as he walked. “Perhaps we could get a drink. Or dinner.”

Crowley’s stomach suddenly ached. Guilt and disappointment warred with each other. He’d spent all day tricking Aziraphale but he wanted that. More than anything. If only he could...

“I’d like that,” he said, because even if it wasn’t everything he felt, it was at least the truth.

“I suppose I should say goodnight then,” Aziraphale said a bit sadly when they finally reached the inn.

Crowley hesitated. It was just one day. It had been a good day. He didn’t want to ruin it. But this was what he’d been working towards for months. What felt like years.

“Or maybe you could come to mine?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows went up.

“No funny business,” Crowley said immediately because he knew Aziraphale needed to hear it.

To his surprise, Aziraphale didn’t protest. Instead, he said, “Perhaps that would be nice. Just for a bit.”

Just for a bit turned into hours, turned into laying on Crowley’s bed and teasing each other. Crowley thought it might be the best day of his life. It was certainly the best March 15th he’d experienced in his whole sorry existence.

He’d wanted to get Aziraphale into bed for a shag but maybe...maybe this was better.

“I used to read a lot of graphic novels, but reading all these old plays has been really interesting. I dunno. Seems like there’s a lot out there to read. Poetry and all,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled softly—affectionately—and said, “What about Shakespeare’s sonnets? Those are quite good if you ever decide to branch out from the plays.”

“I guess I’ll have to start those next,” Crowley said. “Maybe Shakespeare will have something to say about eyes like yours.”

Aziraphale blinked at him and then shook his head. “You say such sweet things. I can’t—it’s hard to believe.”

“Well, I mean them,” Crowley said firmly.

“I can’t believe it’s only been a day,” Aziraphale whispered into the space between them. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Crowley laughed. Forever just like this; Aziraphale in his bed whispering sweet nothings. That might not be so bad.

Aziraphale fingers slid carefully around his wrist and drifted closer, brushing their mouths together. It was electric. It was everything.

Crowley pulled away. “We can’t,” he said, even as he kicked himself for turning down the thing he’d been craving for weeks. What had he been thinking, going after a shag? Aziraphale was perfect and kind and Crowley…

Maybe Anthony Crowley had feelings for people after all.

Hurt bloomed in Aziraphale’s eyes and he pulled away, sitting up and straightening his clothes. “Of course. Silly of me. I shouldn’t have.”

Crowley tugged on his arm. “S’not you. Just. Not today. If you—if you feel the same way tomorrow, I’ll kiss you as much as you’d like.”

Aziraphale looked back at him with lambent gray eyes. Crowley thought of that moment in the snow.

“Maybe you could stay though? Just to sleep?” Crowley asked, feeling pathetic, but it was terribly clear his heart was no longer his own. What did it matter? It would only break again tomorrow.

Aziraphale settled against the pillows. “Alright,” he said softly. “Just to sleep.”

Crowley twined their fingers together, heart racing, and watched him sleep until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Maybe this was it. Maybe all he’d needed to do was admit to his feelings and tomorrow he’d wake up anew.

* * *

_Each morning I get up I die a little_

Crowley rolled over, saw Aziraphale was gone, and burst into tears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter!  
> please note that this does follow the beats of the original movie so the opening sections discuss (with dark humor) Crowley's attempts at suicide. if you'd like to read but that's not your style you can skip to the section that starts with "Crowley slouched back from his segment "
> 
> i've made a series of terrible posters for this fic which can be seen [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/612667446928850944/the-annual-tadfield-cheese-rolling-festival-by), [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/613054544356704256/the-annual-tadfield-cheese-rolling-festival-by), and [here](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/613399370082205696/the-annual-tadfield-cheese-rolling-festival-part-3) (the second was made by my SO)

Crowley spent the next few March 15ths not getting out of bed. He ignored all of Aziraphale’s angry shouting when he pounded on his door at 10 AM. He didn’t care about anything. It wouldn’t matter tomorrow.

After that, he spent a few days walking as far as his body could take him, each day passing out at some point when the snow became impassable and his feet turned to lead. He always woke up in the bed at the inn wishing he could stop existing.

 _Something_ had to be causing this. It was this town. It was this festival.

It was the cheese.

* * *

At the base of Devil’s Hill, on the (who knew?) maybe thousandth day of Crowley’s new hell, Crowley made a decision.

Newt counted down.

“Cheese!” Crowley declared feeling manic. “What is cheese? Hard, rotten milk, you say? No. It’s more than that. It’s a symbol. For the futility of existence. This cheese, every year, rolls down this hill. A new year. A new cheese. But always the same.

“I’m just like that cheese. I’m Sisyphus with cheese as his burden. But, the real question on all our minds is, can Sisyphus exist without his stone?”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.

Crowley dropped the mic and wheeled around, sprinting across the hill and punching Shadwell in the face. The man fell with a cry and Crowley scooped up the cheese.

His cheese now.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, sounding concerned. It tugged at the guilt in Crowley’s gut. But it didn’t matter. Either this day would repeat again and this changed nothing. Or Crowley wouldn’t exist tomorrow when time finally moved on without him.

He just wanted time to move on.

He ran and ran and ran, lungs burning and arms growing tired. 4 kilograms of cheese. Who bloody needed 4 kilograms of cheese?

He heard feet pounding the ground behind him but he didn’t care. This cheese would die with him. Running to the edge of the hill, he tossed himself off the cliff, body dashed on the rocks as he clutched the never-ending cheese to his chest.

* * *

“This is a cursed cheese!” Crowley yelled, holding a can of petrol aloft as he stood atop the cheese wheel. “What’s so special about this cheese? About this town? Why me? Our fates are intertwined. I cannot leave as long as the cheese exists.”

It turned out that if you broke into Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Cheddars at 6 AM, you could steal 10 pounds of the finest double Gloucester before Master of Fucking Ceremonies Shadwell got his grubby hands on it. And once said cheese was obtained, it wasn’t that hard to set yourself up in the town square with petrol in one hand and an unlit lighter in the other.

“Excuse me? Sir?” That was pub girl winding her way through the gathering crowd looking concerned.

“Leave me alone, pub girl,” Crowley snapped, holding his arms out wide and looking up at the sky. “This is how it ends. Smashing the cheese wasn’t enough. It must be burned.”

Crowley poured the petrol over his head, soaking his clothes and the cheese.

The crowd sucked in a breath. Crowley flicked the lighter.

After that Crowley tried a lot of things. He found that the best way to die was by gunshot. Though drowning was a close second.

* * *

Crowley slouched back from his segment and collapsed at one of the tables in Madame Tracy’s dining room, deciding that today he would drown his sorrows in coffee. How many cups of coffee to kill a man? Time to find out.

“Love, are you alright?”

Crowley looked up and met Madame Tracy’s eyes. They weren’t Aziraphale-blue but they had their own sort of crystal quality.

The woman wrinkled her nose. “You look a bit peaky. How about some chocolate biscuits? They always make me feel better.”

“Do you ever wonder what the point of life is?” Crowley asked. Because why the fuck not ask the local innkeeper in a shit town a question that even the great philosophic minds couldn’t agree on?

“No. I know what the point of life is,” Tracy said simply, slipping into the chair across from him and not even questioning his existentialism. Maybe she encountered existentialism a lot.

Crowley looked at her suspiciously. Anyone that confident about this question was probably batshit.

“The point is other people,” Tracy said. “Life only feels meaningless when we’re lonely.”

Crowley stared at her and immediately started to cry.

Tracy was by his side in a flash, rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

“When I was very young,” Tracy began softly. It was strange to have someone touch him so gently. No one had since that perfect day with Aziraphale and there’d been a lot of death since then. “A nice young man fell in love with me. Begged me to marry him over and over again. And even though he was very kind, and I could probably have been happy with him, I said no. I knew I never wanted to get married. He asked me what I was going to do. If I was going to be alone my whole life. I told him that just because you’re not married doesn’t mean you have to be alone.”

Crowley sniffled.

“That’s why I opened the inn, you know. I get to know new people every day. Even grumpy ones like you.”

“M’not grumpy,” Crowley said with scowl, swiping his sleeve under his nose.

“Of course not, dear,” she said indulgently, patting his hand. “How about those biscuits? I think I could rustle up some whisky if you’d like to make that coffee Irish.”

Crowley didn’t die that day.

Instead he spent all morning talking to Madame Tracy. It turned out she had moved to Tadfield after working in the city (as a psychic of all things), but when she’d wanted to retire, she’d moved here. Best decision she’d ever made.

By the end of the conversation, Crowley felt—if not better, at least more hopeful, and when he went to The Four Horsemen to see Aziraphale one last time before the loop started, Aziraphale smiled at him warily, and Crowley decided that maybe Madame Tracy had a point.

After all, what did he have to lose?

* * *

Crowley hung around at the base of the hill at the end of the segment before approaching the man who won the cheese. Crowley had never tried to speak to the man but he wanted to do things differently now. Because different was good. Different wasn’t death by fiery cheese.

And maybe Tracy _was_ batshit but Crowley had very few options besides listening to what had seemed like the sage wisdom of a nice old lady. So he was _getting to know people_.

“Congrats, mate,” Crowley said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand, steeling himself not to recoil from the stranger’s touch.

The man looked at him, still a bit awestruck, and then abruptly looked down when a child barrelled into his legs.

“Dad! You won!” the lad said, tugging on his shirt.

“I did,” the man replied, sounding quite shocked indeed. He focused back on Crowley and gave him a questioning look.

“I’m Anthony Crowley. I’m here covering the festival for the local news.”

The man brightened at that. “Ah! I’m Arthur Young and this is my son, Adam.”

“Nice to meet you,” Crowley said awkwardly. How did you get to know people? Did he really want to do this?

An awkward pause ensued.

“You should come by the Four Horsemen later,” Young offered hesitantly. “Try the cheese.”

“I’ll do that,” Crowley said, deliberately withholding a grimace. Maybe this had been a terrible idea. Small talk and cheese.

Crowley turned to walk away, counting that little interaction as a bust. Maybe he shouldn’t ambush people. Maybe he should ease into it.

“You’re a newsperson?”

Crowley looked down and saw the boy from before trotting at his side. Adam.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he answered warily.

“That’s awesome. Do you get to report on all the cool stuff?”

“I’m er...I’m the weather man,” Crowley said for lack of a better way to explain to a child what he did.

“That’s so cool!” Adam said, bouncing up and down. “Do you think it’s going to snow? They said on TV that it wouldn’t come this far south but it would be wicked.”

Crowley laughed. Such enthusiasm. Crowley didn’t think he’d ever been that enthusiastic as a kid. “You know, I reckon it will.”

“Yes!” Adam said with the same sort of awe that was reserved for Christmas morning. “Then me and Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale can make a snowman. Or have a snowball fight!”

“Your friend’s name is Wensleydale?”

Adam shrugged. “Pepper’s real name is Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. But don’t tell her I told you. She’ll beat me up.”

“Her parents were Lord of the Rings fans then?”

“Lord of the Rings?”

Crowley gaped at him. “You haven’t read Lord of the Rings? Have you seen the films?”

By then they’d reached the townsquare and Adam wrinkled his nose. “Lord of the Rings? Sounds boring.”

Crowley gasped theatrically, hand going to his chest. “How dare you? They’re a classic.”

Adam looked at him suspiciously. “Yeah, but you’re old. What do you know about good movies?”

“Oi!” Crowley cried but he was smiling. “Rude. You’re a little young. What do _you_ know about good movies?”

Adam gave him a wolfish smile before trotting off, tossing over his shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley. I hope it snows!”

Adam ran off towards the park, leaving Crowley to remember how fun kids could be. Little hellions.

* * *

The next day, Crowley got up, did his segment, and went to Agnes Nutter’s cheese shop. He’d broken in there enough times to steal the cheese wheel that he knew his way around.

“Can I help you?” Agnes asked, appearing from the back room the way she always did when Crowley came inside before noon.

“I had some questions about the cheese you make,” Crowley said. He tucked his hands into his pockets so that he’d look more unassuming. Agnes could get a bit tetchy.

Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Questions about cheese.”

“Well, I’m looking to give cheesemaking a try. Just an amateur. And I heard you were the best in the area.”

That made Agnes tilt her chin up. “You heard right, boy. Now. What do you want to know?”

Crowley hesitated. And then asked the first question he could think of. “What makes a cheddar a cheddar?”

* * *

“Look, pub girl,” Crowley said to Anathema during her first break. “All I’m saying is I could help out. I know how to bartend”—he’d taken a week to study—“and you could use an extra set of hands.”

Anathema looked at him dubiously for a long moment and then shrugged. “Everyone’s wasted. Why not?”

Working side by side with Anathema, Crowley noticed the way her eyes drifted to Newt where he was chatting with Aziraphale—and Tracy, of all people. She kept glancing at Newt and then glancing back to her work. Finally, Crowley couldn’t stand it anymore. He bumped Anathema’s elbow with his.

“Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“What?” Anathema said, eyes going round behind her glasses.

“Newt. He’s my camera man, you know,” Crowley said. “Nervous bloke. But a good one.”

Anathema glanced back over at Newt. Crowley sincerely had no idea why she was interested in him. Newt was pale and awkward, whereas Anathema had the sort of beauty that made you look twice if you passed her on the street. But who was Crowley to question it? He was obsessed with a man who wore a bow tie unironically.

“What about you?” Anathema said, tilting her chin back defiantly.

“Me?” Crowley asked, ignoring a patron waving a bill at him.

“Yeah, you’re making moony eyes at that other man you came into town with. Why aren’t you over there putting the moves on him?”

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale just as Aziraphale glanced his way. Their eyes locked and Aziraphale gave him a little smile and a wave. Crowley’s heart lurched as he watched him look away.

“Believe me,” he said, “I would if it would make any difference. Nothing changes tomorrow.”

Anathema frowned. “You’re a bit weird, you know.”

“I know,” Crowley said, finally moving to take the next order.

* * *

A few weeks later, after making his rounds, starting up conversations, and _making friends,_ a snowball hit Crowley square in the back of the head just as he was saying goodbye to RP Tyler. The man growled and grumbled, “Hooligans,” before turning on his heel and marching off, dachshund in tow.

Crowley turned around and saw Adam giving him a shit-eating grin. “C’mon, Mr. Crowley. Aren’t you going to fight back?”

Another snowball struck him in the middle of the chest. He looked to his right and saw a little girl in a red jacket giving him an identical goading smile. There was Pepper.

“Alright,” Crowley said, scooping up some snow. “You asked for it.”

Adam whooped and ran off, Crowley giving chase.

A very tiring fifteen minutes later, Crowley plopped down in the snow bank, laughing and breathing hard.

“Crowley?”

Crowley looked up and saw Aziraphale, snow falling all around him, the cold making his cheeks pink. Fuck, he was so lovely.

“Hey,” Crowley huffed out, arse steadily getting wetter as the snow soaked through his trousers.

“What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you ever been in a snowball fight?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “You’re having a snowball fight?”

Crowley grinned. “Want to join?”

And then he hurled a snowball at Aziraphale’s chest, rewarded by truly adorable, indignant spluttering.

That night he had a snowball fight with Aziraphale and Crowley silently thanked Madame Tracy for making him realize there were better things about life than feeling sorry for himself.

* * *

Crowley didn’t know why he decided to try again. Maybe it was the way the light shone off of the lens of the camera, looking exactly like the lights that flashed behind his eyes when he died. Maybe it was the weeks (months?) of befriending every single person in Tadfield and still not getting over Aziraphale. But when the camera stopped rolling, he let Aziraphale flutter around him, his own heart racing at the proximity.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, breaking through Aziraphale’s little tirade about maybe talking a bit more about the town’s history if they decided to shoot a segment at the pub later.

Aziraphale blinked, eyes fluttering in a way that made Crowley want to kiss his eyelids. When had that happened? Since when did Crowley want to kiss eyelids?

“Would you like to get breakfast with me?” he asked, surprising himself. He hadn’t spent a day alone with Aziraphale in...he didn’t even know. A long time. He’d been feeling less lonely, getting to know everyone stuck in this loop with him. But now he was realizing he’d actually missed Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s hand flew to his chest. How was it that, no matter how many times Crowley asked him to breakfast or lunch or dinner, Aziraphale never reacted the same way?

“Really? You want to get breakfast?” Aziraphale asked suspiciously. “What are you playing at?”

“We’re going to be working together an awful lot.” An understatement. “Thought it might be good if we were friendly.”

Aziraphale’s face bloomed in that way it did when he was surprised and pleased. It wasn’t Crowley’s favorite smile of his—that award went to ‘Tasting Something New and Delicious and Wanting to Share It with Whoever was Nearby’ Smile—but it was a close second. It made him feel warm and hopeful.

“That’s a splendid idea,” Aziraphale said before turning to Newt. “My dear boy, would you like to—”

Newt waved him off with a speculative look. “Nah. Not hungry. I should load up the van.”

“I suppose it’ll be just us then,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, happy as always. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets as they ambled back into town.

He liked the way Aziraphale walked; sure little steps, a perfectly straight line. A stupid thing to like about a person. But he liked everything else too. He liked the way Aziraphale’s nose tipped up. He liked the lines around his eyes. He liked the way his chin tipped forward when he was trying not to laugh and a little roll of fat appeared beneath it, not self-conscious in the least. He liked the way his eyes changed colors throughout the day and in different lighting. How he called Crowley on his peacocking at every turn. How he thrived on taking digs at everyone. Not an angel. A bastard.

Crowley loved him. Wasn’t that a bitch.

He wondered when he’d tripped past fascination into love. Was it the day that Aziraphale had tipped a handful of snow into his hair when he wasn’t looking? Only to point at himself as if to say: _who me? I’d never_. Or maybe the day he’d dragged Aziraphale and Newt out to Mary Hodges’ paintball field where Aziraphale had turned the gun on Crowley mercilessly, laughing the whole time?

He had no idea. Like so much of this hell, Crowley found himself rolling down a hill like stupid, out-of-control cheese. No destination, no runner chasing him. An endless hill, unfolding before him.

But at least Aziraphale was there too.

They sat down for breakfast and Crowley decided to tell the truth.

“Aziraphale,” he said again, drawing Aziraphale’s attention from the menu even as Crowley idly wondered what he would get today. Sometimes it was crepes, sometimes waffles. But always something sweet.

“Yes, Anth-Crowley?” Aziraphale said, quickly correcting himself and smiling apologetically.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, and he must have sounded serious because Aziraphale set down his menu and furrowed his brow in concern.

“I’ve been reliving today,” he said, for lack of a better way to start explaining.

Aziraphale’s frown deepened. “What?”

“Today. March 15th. I’ve been reliving it. Repeating it.”

Aziraphale finally scoffed, frown breaking as he looked away. “Crowley, really, I thought this was an honest attempt to get to know each other but if you’re going to pull my leg then—”

“Not pulling your leg. Honest to God.”

Aziraphale was already pushing back his chair and Crowley felt panic rise in him. He hadn’t realized how much he needed someone to believe him until this moment.

“You studied classical theater in university,” he blurted out and Aziraphale paused, looking at him sharply.

“How do you know that?”

“You told me.”

“I most certainly didn’t.”

“You also told me about visiting your grandfather’s bookshop in Soho. How you used to work the till when you were young. How he always snuck you butterscotch candies and whenever you have one you can still smell old books.”

Aziraphale dropped into the chair, hand going to his mouth. “Good lord. Are you—have you been stalking me?”

Crowley reeled back. He’d gone about this entirely wrong. Stomach twisting, he rushed to add, “Of course not! How about this? Look out the window. In about three seconds, a man with a moustache is going to round the corner and start talking to a girl with glasses. Then she’s going to shout at him and shove a newspaper in his face.”

Aziraphale twisted in his seat to look out the window and sure enough Tyler appeared, only to be stopped by Anathema, who shouted—and Crowley knew it was _Stop trying to peddle that weedkiller. It’s terrible for the environment_ —and jammed a paper into Tyler’s chest as he snapped back. _Dandelions are ravaging this town._

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, mouth working like he was trying to find words. “This cannot be true.”

“It is,” Crowley said, absently ripping up the paper napkin in front of him. “Terribly, ridiculously true.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Let’s say I believe you. How long has this been happening?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “Long enough. Months. Years. I know everything that happens in this town on March 15th. Every twist of the cheese, every stupid argument, everything. I wish I didn’t. But I do.”

Aziraphale seemed unable to look away and Crowley couldn’t decide if that was delightful or simply terrifying. “There has to be something you haven’t done.”

Crowley cracked a smile. Count on Aziraphale. “This, actually.”

“This? Having breakfast with me?”

“No. Explaining it to you. Well, I did try once, but it was early on. I couldn’t prove it,” Crowley said, feeling so absurdly hopeful that it reminded him of that first time leaping off of the cliff. Free fall.

“Oh, well. Yes,” Aziraphale said with a huffed laugh. “It is rather difficult to believe.”

Aziraphale hummed as his french toast was placed in front of him. He poured syrup in concentric circles and cut the entire slice before each bite. Persnickety.

“I know. I’ve done everything I could think of to stop it, but I think I’ve sort of...settled into it,” Crowley admitted. “There’s this group of kids. They’re absolute monsters, but they always let me have a snowball fight with them tonight. One time you even joined in.

Aziraphale spluttered into his syrup. “Snowball fight? I—”

“And...Anathema—I suppose you don’t know her, but she runs The Four Horseman. She’s actually the granddaughter of the woman who makes the cheese for the festival. She has a crush on Newt, if you’d believe it. Told me that she looks forward to the festival because he shows up. Isn’t that something?”

Aziraphale was gaping at him. “You’ve spent the time loop...making friends?”

Crowley laughed, high on the fact that Aziraphale believed him and that Crowley could actually tell someone about all this nonsense that was happening.

“Do you believe in God, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked without preamble, making Aziraphale look at him sharply.

“I do, actually,” Aziraphale said, laying his fork and knife aside like he was ready to explain himself.

“I’m starting to believe too. S’probably a cruel God. A trickster God. Something is making this happen and it’s certainly not me,” Crowley said. “But if this is my existence, I’m trying to make the best of it, you know?”

Aziraphale sucked a drop of syrup off his thumb like he had no idea what that did to Crowley. Crowley had given no indication that he was desperately in love with him and wanted to snog him on top of this table and every other surface in Tadfield.

“Spend the day with me,” he said, words rushing out before he could think better of it. “The days are always better when I get to spend time with you. You make this place interesting. Just by being in it.”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale looked at his plate and speared a bite of toast. A lovely blush had spread over his cheeks and temples. “If you think it will help, I’d love to.”

After breakfast, Crowley dragged Aziraphale onto the street, already chattering about all the things they could do.

“Look, you always love going to the cheese shop so we’re going to the cheese shop,” Crowley said, leading Aziraphale down the street.

“This is quite strange. I feel like you know my reactions before I even have them,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands like his was nervous but dutifully trotting after.

“To be fair, you rarely have the same reactions. And all I know is that you like cheese.”

“I do like cheese,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. Crowley smiled solicitously and opened the door to Agnes’s.

“Miss Agnes!” Crowley called and, as always, Agnes appeared from the back room.

“Do I know you?” she asked suspiciously and Crowley shook his head.

“I come by Tadfield every year for the festival but this is the first year I’ve stopped in your shop. I was hoping you might recommend some cheese,” Crowley said with a friendly smile and when he looked back at Aziraphale, he was gaping at him.

As Agnes puttered around gathering some samples and muttering to herself, Crowley hissed, “What? Why are you staring?”

“You’re just...so polite,” Aziraphale said.

“Turns out people are nicer when you’re polite,” Crowley said. He pressed a hand to his chest in overdramatic distress. “I’m shocked you don’t know that. Are you—are you secretly rude?”

Aziraphale scoffed and rolled his eyes fondly, making Crowley’s stomach swoop. Every drop of affection was more than he ever expected. It made this whole experience feel worthwhile. It made _Crowley_ feel worthwhile.

Crowley happily watched Aziraphale sample all the cheeses, cooing over his favorite and ultimately buying a pound of Camembert.

They ambled through the antique shop and though Crowley had seen it all before, he hung on Aziraphale’s words, his observations. And for once, Aziraphale laughed at his jokes about useless trinkets. It was easy and glorious and Crowley was so bloody happy.

“Time to go to the pub. Stuff always gets interesting around one,” Crowley said as they left the shop and Aziraphale simply followed after, smiling to himself in quiet pleasure. The snow was falling, thick on the ground, flakes getting stuck in his blond hair. Crowley wished he could sculpt that face, trace the angles of it. Aziraphale was so lovely.

They found Newt moping in the corner of the pub, occasionally glancing at Anathema as she flitted among the crowd, serving drinks. It was always like this when Crowley didn’t take Newt out and give him a talking to about confidence and romance. Crowley slipped into the chair across from him and said, “Why don’t you talk to her?”

Newt started, blushed, and then stared at his pint. “No way. She’s so pretty. And I’m…”

“What? Nice? I hear people are fond of nice people,” Crowley pointed out. Aziraphale was standing at the edge of the table, staring at them. “Tell him Aziraphale. S’why I like you.”

“Ye-yes,” Aziraphale stammered. “Kindness goes a long way.”

Crowley nodded decisively. “Now go talk to her.”

Newt paused and then drained his pint. “You’re right. Now or never.”

Crowley watched him wind through the crowd, feeling very pleased. He always liked the days when he got Anathema and Newt to talk to each other. It made him feel hopeful.

Aziraphale collapsed in Newt’s chair. “That’s really why you like me?”

Crowley stared at his knees. It wasn’t like he’d been keeping his crush on Aziraphale a secret, but it was a bit strange to be asked directly. “One of the reasons?” he said. “You’re also...you’re bloody gorgeous.”

Aziraphale started to turn red and Crowley put out his hands. “Not to make you uncomfortable. Shit. Sorry.”

“No it’s—it’s alright,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose I didn’t expect someone like you to—well, suffice it to say, it’s surprising.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that but it didn’t matter because Aziraphale changed the subject. And, as always, talking to Aziraphale was the best way Crowley could imagine spending his infinite time on March 15th.

The pub started to get raucous and Crowley noticed Aziraphale growing steadily more uncomfortable as the crowd grew around them. Newt was still chatting with Anathema at the bar so Crowley took a risk.

“Want to get out of here?”

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. “I suppose it is getting late.”

That wasn’t what Crowley had meant at all but he tried not to be disappointed. This had still been the best day of existence since coming to Tadfield.

“So what else did you do with your time besides getting to know everyone in Tadfield?” Aziraphale asked as they climbed the stairs to the second floor of the inn.

“I actually started reading Shakespeare because I wanted something to talk to you about,” Crowley said, laughing at himself. It seemed ridiculous now, but he didn’t regret it. It felt something like self improvement.

“Really?’ Aziraphale asked incredulously. “I’m sure we had other things we could have discussed."

Crowley shook his head. “I kept putting my foot in it. Saying all sorts of shite. I wanted something neutral. Something that might impress you.”

“You’ve impressed me,” Aziraphale said, eyes going soft as they paused on the landing. “More than I thought possible. I can’t believe you read Shakespeare for me.”

Crowley scoffed, heart growing about three sizes. Today had been perfect. Everything he could want. “Every word made me think of you. I wanted to know what you thought about the lines, the plots, the jokes. I knew you’d have something interesting to say.”

“Shakespeare made you think of me,” Aziraphale repeated, oddly breathless.

“Yeah, some of the lines were just... _Age could not wither him, nor custom stale his infinite variety_. Seemed so fitting after awhile,” Crowley said. “I don’t know how long I’ve been stuck here, on March 15th but you...you’re never boring.”

“That line’s about Cleopatra,” Aziraphale pointed out, even though he was blushing.

“I know. I just read it again last week. I’m working on Midsummer now,” Crowley admitted. He had to buy it on audiobook every morning, but it was worth it.

“You’re very different than I thought, you know,” Aziraphale said finally.

Crowley knocked their elbows together. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he teased.

“Oh please, you know what everyone thinks of you. The old demon Crowley. Don’t get on his bad side.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Demon? Me? More like a kitten I think.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “If a kitten kicked over chairs and made their co-anchors cry.”

“That was one time!” Crowley said pointedly. “And how was I supposed to know she was pregnant?”

They paused in the hallway. Crowley knew this song and dance even if it made his heart hurt. “Better let you get to bed then. Thanks for the chat. You’re good company, angel.”

The word slipped out. He’d spent long enough thinking it. Of course it would slip out at a stupid moment like this.

Aziraphale stared at him, eyes going wide. He cleared his throat and glanced at the floor. “How about...would you like a nightcap?”

Crowley nearly fell over in shock, which had Aziraphale waving his hands. “Not _a nightcap_. As in a euphemism for—oh dear—”

Crowley choked on air and said, “No, that’s fine. I wouldn’t assume—Yes _._ Yours or mine?”

Aziraphale looked relieved even though he was blushing. “Perhaps yours. It’s just...today has been so wonderful. I find I don’t want it to end.”

Crowley opened the door to his room.“I couldn’t agree more.”

Crowley turned on all the lights in the room while Aziraphale curled up on the sofa, pulling one of the hideous quilts over his legs, looking so soft that Crowley wanted to curl up against him and sleep until all these March 15ths were over.

“Thank you for today,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley made tea at the little station in his room.

“Thank me?” Crowley replied incredulously. “You’ve made my whole existence better in just twenty four hours. I think I owe you one. Might not be able to pay up, but maybe in the next life.”

When he looked back at Aziraphale, his eyes were shining. “This is terribly unfair.”

“What is?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale wiped away the tears forming in his eyes. “That you’ve given me such a lovely day and I won’t remember it tomorrow.”

Crowley sat on the couch beside him and put his arm around him. Aziraphale leaned into it easily and Crowley’s heart soared. One good day. The best day.

“It’s alright. Maybe we can have a day like this again sometime. Even if you don’t remember.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Maybe I could stay. If that’s alright. I hate to think I’d be leaving you alone just to wake up tomorrow and do this again.”

“I’d love if you stayed. You’re always welcome,” Crowley said. He loved him. Fuck, he loved him. But he wasn’t going to say it. Aziraphale was already so upset. He was pretty sure that would just make it worse.

Aziraphale leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder and it settled the grief in Crowley’s chest. This would end. But for now, he’d had Aziraphale in his arms. He knew that a reality existed where he could rest his cheek against his soft curls and feel wanted.

* * *

_I can dim the lights and sing us songs full of sad things_

Crowley’s eyes shot open.

What?

Blinding light filtered through the lace curtains of the inn, brighter than any March 15th before.

“Crowley…”

Crowley scrambled away and fell out of bed, hitting his arse on the wood floor and swearing. His tailbone was certainly bruised but it didn’t matter because Aziraphale was in his bed. Aziraphale was still there.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said, launching himself to the side table and grabbed his phone.

March 16th 6:30 AM.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

Aziraphale grumbled as Crowley crawled onto the bed to get his hands on him.

“Are you alri—”

“It’s March 16th,” Crowley said, manic laughter driving the air from his lungs. It was March 16th.

He kissed Aziraphale full on the mouth, ignoring the sour morning taste because it was March 16th. March 16th!

Aziraphale grunted at the sudden kiss but relaxed into it, hand coming to cup his cheek.

Crowley sighed when he finally pulled away, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling he knew so well he’d named every crack. George was his least favorite because he was crooked and didn’t line up with the seam of the wall. It was over. Why was it over? Did it matter? Maybe it was God growing tired of him. Maybe it was simply a second chance.

Crowley wasn’t going to waste it.

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention. “So it’s broken then. A new day?”

“A new day,” Crowley confirmed, grin splitting his face so wide it almost hurt.

Aziraphale smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Annual Tadfield Cheese-Rolling Festival](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987997) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)




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